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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992507">Forged in Fire (made with love)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantShipper/pseuds/TheReluctantShipper'>TheReluctantShipper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Baker Jaskier, Blacksmith Geralt, Fluff, M/M, No Angst, Seriously Painful Amounts of Fluff, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:55:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,529</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantShipper/pseuds/TheReluctantShipper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day, baker Jaskier bakes an extra loaf of bread and brings it to Geralt, the blacksmith who owns the forge next door.</p><p>It's a declaration, they both know it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>874</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fave Stories of Queixo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Forged in Fire (made with love)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>- This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I don't own anything but the original characters. I don't claim ownership over the characters or storyline of the The Witcher, no matter how grateful I am for them, which is hella.</p><p>- Thanks to the Sister Husbands, who are my best friends in the whole world, and happen to be gracious enough to also beta most of my works for me. I don't know what I'd do without you girls, but I certainly wouldn't be doing this.</p><p>- You can come see me on <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thereluctantshipper">tumblr</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/TheReluctantSh1?s=09">Twitter</a> if me sharing fan edits and bitching about writer's block floats your boat.</p><p>- I come by any mistakes here honestly, but feel free to point them out so I can correct them.</p><p>- Feedback is life.</p><p>- Inspired by a tumblr post. Y'all know the one.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt wakes up to song every morning. It’s his second favorite thing about mornings.</p><p>He dresses silently, without lighting a candle. His clothes are thick and dark, often worn or patched in places but meticulously clean. He uses a length of leather strip to tie his long, pale hair back at the nape of his neck and makes his way down to the forge.</p><p>The sweet music doesn’t herald the sunrise just yet. The sky is dark as pitch, but the fires have to be started early so he can begin work early. He’s the only blacksmith in the medium-sized village he lives in, which would be quite enough work, but he’s also the only farrier. It keeps a man almost busier than he knows what to do with.</p><p>He gets his flint, steel, and a handful of straw from the bale he uses to keep Roach’s stall clean and comfortable and gets the fire started under the coals. Some of them are banked from the night before, but the heat leftover is hardly anything at all. Banking the coals is a habit from his travelling that he can’t seem to stop, but it doesn’t hurt anything, so he doesn’t try that hard.</p><p>Once the fire is roaring satisfactorily, Geralt goes out to the stable to take care of Roach. Now that they’re not travelling every day (and, loathe as he is to admit it, she’s getting on in years), she spends most of her time grazing in the field behind the forge when she’s not getting into trouble. He still gives her a light combing in the mornings, though, and a thorough groom every night. </p><p>When he gets to the stable, though, Roach isn’t alone.</p><p>“-and you mustn’t tell your owner that I gave you these, my darling Roach. He’ll scold me, and you know I can’t stand that. <em> Well, </em> I say scold, what I mean is that he’ll scold me with his <em> eyes, </em>dearest, and a man can only stand so strong for so long in the face of-”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, one corner of his mouth ticked up in a helpless half-smile.</p><p>The man standing in front of Roach’s stall twirls in place, his face lit up with pleasure, which Geralt will never get used to being the cause of.</p><p>“Geralt!”</p><p>Jaskier is dressed colorfully, as always. The blue of his shirt makes his eyes shine, though, and Geralt has no complaints. He wears a long white apron over his clothes, though he still manages to cover himself in flour by the end of every day.</p><p>This early, however, he’s still clean and crisp and smelling of soap. His smile is bright and his hair is messy and Geralt’s heart pounds hard in his chest at the sight.</p><p>Geralt clears his throat. “Spoiling my horse?”</p><p>Jaskier presses a hand to his chest in mock outrage. <em> “Spoil? </em> Impossible! Honestly, Geralt, it’s impossible to <em> spoil </em> a horse as fine as our Roach, and even if it wasn’t, which I assure you it is, a few oats here and there, every now and again, surely wouldn’t count as such.”</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow. “A pocketful of oats every morning surely would, however.”</p><p>Jaskier sputters. “Well, I <em> never-” </em></p><p>Geralt chuckles and moves around the other man to bridle Roach and let her out of her stall. She huffs happily and butts her head against his chest. He smiles and scratches the spot behind her left ear that she likes while he listens to Jaskier babble next to him. He pulls Roach’s comb off of its hook on the wall, walks her out, and starts to briskly comb her coat. She flicks him with her tail when he gets to her rump, a gentle rebuke for the pampering. He doesn’t mind, the years of travel she put up with before he finally came back to take over Vesemir’s forge earned her all of the scratching and combing and oats from poorly lying bakers she can get.</p><p>Jaskier has, through verbal acrobatics that Geralt always has trouble following, come around from defending himself to complaining about the shipment that was supposed to come the day before.</p><p>“-and they’re just <em> better </em> from across the river, but Mrs. Smith won’t hear a delicately placed word against her berries. So I’ve been forced to indulge her <em> yet again, </em> and I think I’m too nice, and it’s going to force me to use subpar berries for the rest of my days. Geralt, the berry tarts are so <em> popular, </em> and I just know that no one is going to want to buy them if-”</p><p>Geralt lets it wash over him, that lovely voice that will be too soon drowned out by the sound of roaring fires and hammered steel. Almost everyone Geralt has ever met has wanted more speech than he was able to give. Vesemir never minded, nor did the others who were apprenticing with Geralt, but he’s always been told that he should speak up more.</p><p>Jaskier, though, has never minded that Geralt so often has only a handful of words to spare each day. Jaskier lets him grunt or hum thoughtfully, takes those almost replies and runs with them. Almost every morning, their conversation is Jaskier talking aimlessly (never silent, the baker from next door) and Geralt (gratefully, <em> gratefully) </em> listening, and it hasn’t once stopped Jaskier from continuing.</p><p>Too soon, Roach has been thoroughly combed. Geralt hangs the comb back were it belongs and pats her rump to get her moving out into the field. Instead, she takes a step toward Jaskier, interrupting him mid-rant about superior types of sugar, and nudges at his hips where the pockets he always keeps her oats in are.</p><p>Jaskier laughs, a musical, tinkling sound. “Dearest Roach, there’s nothing left! You’ve drained me quite dry.”</p><p>Roach huffs, then butts her head against his chest in a sign of affection she only ever gave Geralt before these mornings became their routine. She wanders into the field aimlessly, ears flicking back and forth to absorb the sounds of the village coming alive for the day around them.</p><p>“Now, Geralt, I hope you know that I haven’t forgotten you. Roach may be first in my heart, but you hold your piece, too, and that kind of regard will never go unrewarded.”</p><p>Geralt’s heart speeds up at the words, just as it has every time the sentiment has passed through Jaskier’s sweet lips in one form or another.</p><p>Jaskier has pulled a cheese cloth-wrapped bundle from the bag slung over his shoulder and is offering it to Geralt, smiling brightly but with the hint of affectionate shyness Geralt has come to crave.</p><p>Only days after Geralt got back from his travels and settled back in at the forge, his morning routine with Roach had been interrupted by Jaskier for the first time. The slim baker hadn’t spared more than a glance for Geralt’s bulk or his pale hair and eyes, he’d just babbled about welcoming him back to the village and how nice it was that “grouchy old Vesemir” had someone around now.</p><p>Geralt had taken the loaf of bread that day, bemused and mostly silent. Jaskier hadn’t seemed to mind overmuch, and his cheeks had flushed quite fetchingly when their fingers brushed against one another.</p><p>So many people had stopped by to welcome him home, even if it was often just a ruse used to come see him and obtain more fodder for the gossip mill, that Geralt hadn’t thought overmuch about the interaction. Until the next day, when it happened again. On the third day, Jaskier had brought an apple for Roach along with the freshly-baked bread. After that, both Geralt and Roach expected (looked forward to) the daily interruptions.</p><p>A lot of things have changed in the years since Geralt got back. Vesemir is gone, left to do his own, gentler version of travelling, more of a retirement than he ever thought he’d get. The farrier in the village died, leaving Geralt as the only metal worker in the area. The village itself has grown, too, with refugees fleeing the massacre in Cintra a few years ago still trickling in even now. What used to be a strictly human village is now a bit more of a mixing pot. Pointed ears and slitted pupils are as common as not these days, and the human population is fiercely protective of their half-breed counterparts, which surprised Geralt after all of the hatred and bigotry he’s seen. Jaskier accused him of being a pessimist.</p><p>The only thing that <em> hasn’t </em> changed is Jaskier, really. He’s still lovely, soft, and nearly feminine where Geralt is all muscle and scars. Jaskier’s hands are surprisingly rough and calloused, the price he pays for washing so often and thoroughly, and his arms are strong and sinewy from hours of kneading dough and hauling bags of ingredients by himself. He’s always covered in flour or sugar, unless it’s so early that he hasn’t really gotten to work yet, but his blue eyes are eternally shining with good humor and earnestness.</p><p>Jaskier sings <em> all the time. </em> His sweet voice wakes Geralt each morning and serenades the village all day. He always has open arms and a big smile for someone coming into the bakery he owns that sits right next to Geralt’s forge. His dark hair is a riot of curls, falling into his eyes and somehow perpetually just this side of too long.</p><p>He’s lovely and cheerful and a shining constant and Geralt is, always has been, and quite likely always will be helpless before him.</p><p>He hums his thanks and takes the loaf from Jaskier’s hands, making sure to brush their fingers together when he does so. Jaskier’s cheeks don’t pinken like they did that first morning, but the way his eyes warm up and his smile widens is better, anyway.</p><p>“That’s that, then, isn’t it?” Jaskier murmurs. He laughs when Geralt hums in agreement. “Go on, then, you great dashing brute. Go hit pointy things with hammers.”</p><p>Geralt wishes, as he often does around the baker, that he possessed the way with words that he’d need to express himself in this moment. Since he does not, he simply says, “Be well, Jaskier.”</p><p>Jaskier blows him a kiss before making his way to the bakery. If he feels Geralt’s burning gaze on him the whole time, he doesn’t show it.</p><hr/><p>After breakfast, which consists of the thick, dense loaf crammed with herbs Jaskier gave him and warm ale, Geralt finally goes down to the forge for the day. His thick leather apron is folded over one of the anvils and he pulls it on over his head, already letting his mind gets lost in what he needs to finish today.</p><p>He loses hours in the forge every day to the heat, the red glow of steel, and the sharp, loud sound of the hammer shaping metal however he pleases. He makes horseshoes, knives, and a decorative piece here and there. He does repairs to several pieces of armor from a young man who Geralt suspects was a knight but who hasn’t said a word one way or another about it. It doesn’t bother Geralt, the only business of his is the way the boy’s chest plate fits. For the brewer down the street, he creates a series of steel hoops for barrels carefully measured and made.</p><p>He finishes the jobs he promised himself that he’d get done today faster than he thought he would. He gives a fleeting thought to finishing early, but he waves it away after only a moment. He may be done with paid work, but he still has something to do.</p><p>He gets a mid-sized dagger down from one of the top shelves and lays it lovingly on the anvil. It’s quite different than the utilitarian blades he normally makes, but then again, its intended recipient is quite different than anyone Geralt has ever met.</p><p>The blade itself is done, polished within an inch of its life, so Geralt is working on the sheath. He’s not a particularly gifted leatherworker, but he knows just enough to be able to make the sheath a little less plain than his own. Tonight he wants to complete the embellishments on the body of it before he moves on to make a belt that will hold the whole thing onto slim hips.</p><p>By the time his growling stomach alerts him to how late it is, full dark has fallen outside. He realizes that his entire body is slick with sweat and several strands of his hair have escaped the leather binding and are clinging to his face and neck. Wiping his face doesn’t help, his sleeves are soaked, too.</p><p>With a sigh, he starts to clean up after himself. The finished work goes against one wall. Every few days he pays one of the boys from the village a few coppers to tell his customers that their work is done, so the finished pieces will stay there until they’re retrieved.</p><p>That done, he puts all of his tools back where they belong. He banks the fires, paying no mind to the darkness that follows. He can see quite well in the night, so he rarely bothers with lighting a candle. He just folds his apron, lays it over the anvil, and locks the door.</p><p>He whistles to bring Roach back to the stable from where he knows she’s been lurking around the bakery, hounding Jaskier for treats. He also knows that Jaskier is probably giving in to her rather easily.</p><p>She trots over without much of a struggle, bumping his chest and lipping at the end of his hair. She’s as docile as she ever is while he grooms her, pulling at his clothes and stepping away from him at inopportune moments to make it harder for him, but he lets her do what she wants. She got him out of more than one fraught situation while they were travelling. If tugging his shirt from where it’s tucked into his pants amuses her now, so be it.</p><p>When he’s done he beds her down in the stable for the night, then finally goes back to the rooms he lives in over the forge. They’re small and worn from decades of use, but they’re clean and always warm from the forge below.</p><p>There’s another cloth-wrapped package waiting for him in front of his door. The smell of bread wafts up to him again, along with the heavy scent of thick stew, and Geralt smiles. It’s not every night that Jaskier will prepare enough supper to halve it and feed Geralt as well, but it’s more evenings than not that Geralt finds food waiting for him.</p><p>He takes the small bundle and bowl inside as he reflects. It’s true that Jaskier lives alone and, for all that he flirts as others breathe, he’s never shown a real interest in taking a wife. There’s been enough interest that he could have, too. Flighty and silly as he is, he’s still a land-owning man with a solid skillset and a thriving business. There’s been <em> plenty </em> of interest from the other side.</p><p>Not unlike the interest in Geralt himself, which is met with the same lack of reciprocation. Lack of acknowledgement, even, when they can get away with it.</p><p>The food is good, as always, but it still makes Geralt’s insides squirm. For all that Jaskier is busy and in demand, he still takes time out of his day to feed Geralt at least once a day, twice on most days.</p><p>It’s… Quite a thought.</p><p>A thought that continues to muddle his mind and make it spin as he finishes supper. Once he’s cleaned the bowl, which he’ll return tomorrow, he goes to the bedroom to strip, give himself a brief wipe down with cold water and cloth, and climb into bed. </p><p>He’s never had trouble falling asleep, really, and he doesn’t now, either. Instead, he drifts into slumber looking forward to being woken by Jaskier’s singing.</p><hr/><p>The next day is much the same. He’s almost finished with the embellishments on the sheath.</p><hr/><p>The next day, too, is the same. He finishes the embellishments and cuts leather for the belt.</p><hr/><p>And so on, and so on.</p><hr/><p>Jaskier has had music in his head for as long as he can remember. Luckily for him, the bakery offers enough solitude that he can let some of it out without bothering anyone.</p><p>There was, for a time, the idea of travelling to Oxenfurt, applying for a scholarship, and letting his music be his life. But his father got sick, and someone had to make sure his sisters wouldn’t end up homeless, and it was never really a choice whether to leave or stay.</p><p>He adores the bakery, too, so he doesn’t feel any great loss. He likes baking bread and pies and cookies and scones. He likes slipping treats to his nieces and nephews, now that they’re getting old enough to wander in without his sisters. He likes the security of an established business, a place to call home.</p><p>He likes his neighbor. </p><p>So he <em> is </em> grateful for the bakery, for his life, and for the way his early morning singing doesn’t bother anyone. He belts out his gratitude as he lights a candle, splashes water on his face, haphazardly dresses, and makes his way from his messy home atop his bakery and into his messy kitchen.</p><p>His apron, one of several he keeps so that he can use a clean one every day, gets swept off the hook at the bottom of the stairs and dropped over his head as he bangs into the swinging door to the kitchen.</p><p>The first thing he does is start the fires, arranging wood and coal carefully to get the exact temperature, level smoke, and resulting flavor he needs. As soon as the first oven is ready, he pulls a towel-covered bowl out of the pantry, gets a pan from the stacks and stacks that he tries to keep organized and always ends up leaving everywhere, and carefully transfers the risen dough into the pan. Once it’s to his satisfaction, he puts it into the oven, puts the bowl into the giant washing tub resting against one wall, and gets to work prepping his space for the rest of his day.</p><p>About forty minutes are lost to accepting deliveries of fresh eggs, berries <em> (ugh), </em> and other ingredients that must be harvested or gathered day of. He makes sure to pay for the supplies <em> and </em> give the village boys who bring them a generous tip. He was one of those boys once, and it just makes sense when he knows the most generous shopkeepers are served first.</p><p>Once everything has been put away, he checks on the bread being made. It’s done, which he knew it would be, so he pulls it out and sets it on the counter to cool. He eats a biscuit or two for his own breakfast, gathers a handful (or two) of oats he claims he doesn’t order especially for his favorite horse, dumps them into his apron pocket, and takes the opportunity to peek into the mirror he keeps just inside the door to see if his hair is as wild as it feels (it is). Once those things are done, the bread has cooled enough to transport, so he wraps it in a towel and cheerfully goes over to Geralt’s forge.</p><p>The blacksmith himself is still in the forge when Jaskier gets there, as he almost always is so Jaskier goes to Roach’s stall in the stable first. She whinnies softly when she sees him and he can’t help the way he smiles at her.</p><p>“Ah, you gorgeous girl. How is the loveliest lady in the stable today?”</p><p>He keeps up a steady stream of affectionate, nonsensical murmuring while he gives her oats from the palm of his hand. Her soft, whiskered lips scraping against his palm is one of his favorite things, better than the smell of baking bread to wake him up.</p><p>Her attention shifts to something behind him briefly, which is the only warning he needs that they’re no longer alone in the stable.</p><p>“Good morning, Geralt,” he says warmly, not taking his eyes away from Roach.</p><p>Geralt hums in greeting, and Jaskier takes that as welcome to start babbling to the man as he steps out of the way so Roach can be bridled and moved out of the stable. </p><p>There are days, often several in a row, that Geralt seems to have no words to share. That’s quite all right with Jaskier, who knows that Geralt means no offense with his silence. The big man just seems to rarely feel the need to express himself with speech. Jaskier can do so enough for the both of them, though, so he thinks it evens itself out. Geralt seems to feel the same way.</p><p>So Jaskier talks about anything and everything that comes to mind. As he dances from topic to topic, from trading recipes with a new baker a few towns over via messenger to gossip about the mayor’s son and his skirt-chasing ways, he watches Geralt’s slow, methodical movements as he combs Roach. The attention he pays to her, the gravity with which he performs this simple daily task, is mesmerizing. It’s easy to lose himself in watching even as his mouth continues to speak.</p><p>Too soon, Geralt finishes and pats Roach on her backside to usher her into the field behind the forge. They watch her trot out into the tall grass together before Jaskier turns to his tall, broad companion with an easy smile.</p><p>“And now, my darling Geralt, we must part yet again, though it does pain me so.” He clasps a hand against his heart dramatically.</p><p>He’s not <em> completely </em> joking, of course. A part of him does want to always be near Geralt, chattering his ear off and enjoying the play of muscles beneath his scarred skin. He’d be an excellent kept man, he thinks.</p><p>It’s not to be, however nice it would be. Jaskier loves his bakery, loves the heat and rhythm, loves producing savory bread and sweet pastries. He likes being financially independent. He likes, too, the idea of Geralt working on his own creations in his forge, that they’re both making their marks on the world. Separate but together.</p><p>Geralt just hums at him, but he can’t fool Jaskier. Someone else might miss the humor sparkling in those lovely golden eyes, but Jaskier <em> lives for it. </em></p><p>He pulls the loaf of bread he makes every day from his pack and holds it out, his constant offering to this soft-spoken, gentle man.</p><p>“Now, I tried something new this time, so I expect a thorough commentary tomorrow morning. Hold nothing back, be it flattering or devastating, I want everything you have to give me."</p><p>His grin turns sharp when Geralt cocks an imperious brow, but he also sees the answering smile lurking at the corners of Geralt’s mouth. <em> Quite lovely, </em> he thinks giddily.</p><p>He takes a few steps backward before blowing a kiss to his forger. “Go on, then. Go make pointy things.”</p><p>Geralt’s expression is fond enough to make Jaskier’s heart stutter in his chest. “Be well, Jaskier.”</p><p>With what he expects is a besotted smile on his own face, Jaskier finally turns and enters his bakery. The wall of dry heat hits him almost like an actual wall.  It’s routine, familiar, and brings his thoughts around from his blacksmith and to the day ahead.</p><p>
  <em> Be well, indeed. </em>
</p><hr/><p>That evening, Jaskier leaves a roasted leg of lamb along with a heaping mound of roasted potatoes on Geralt’s doorstep. When he scurries back home, knowing that Geralt will be leaving the side door of the forge to make his own way home any moment now, he cannot help the heavy feeling of contentment that settles in his belly.</p><hr/><p>And so goes the next day.</p><hr/><p>And the day after that.</p><hr/><p>The day after <em> that, </em> however, everything finally changes.</p><hr/><p>It’s evening, and Jaskier has finished cleaning up for the day. He’s putting the last touches on supper, which is a light stew with chicken and vegetables. The days are getting hotter, and with how hot the bakery (not to mention the forge) already gets, he doesn’t want to make himself (or Geralt) sick with too-heavy meals.</p><p>As if summoned by the thought, Geralt steps into the bakery. Over the years they’ve been neighbors, they’ve only been in one another’s establishments a handful of times. So his presence, as well as the almost <em> unsettled </em> air (because surely Geralt wouldn’t be nervous) about him, has Jaskier’s eyebrows rising to his hairline.</p><p>As usual when he himself is unsure (or happy, or despondent, or bored, or really anything), Jaskier starts to speak.</p><p>“Supper isn’t <em> quite </em> ready, oh darling Geralt. I do have some leftover bread if you like, something to tide you over. Not leftover because anything is <em> wrong </em> with it, mind you, it just wasn’t quite up to snuff for our illustrious mayor. My snuff, you understand. I daresay he’d have been quite thrilled with it, but you know me, ever the perfectionist, so I-”</p><p>“I’m not here for supper, Jask.”</p><p>Jaskier blinks. Not only was that an <em> entire sentence </em> from his taciturn blacksmith, but he has never in his life heard Geralt shorten his name. Especially with such fondness.</p><p>His own wrong-footedness seems to have dispelled some of Geralt’s hesitation. The warmth in his eyes surprises Jaskier even as it soothes him. Not that he didn’t <em> know </em> that the complicated emotions he harbors for Geralt are mutual, something they share, but…</p><p>Well, that warmth is just nice, is all.</p><p>As is the way Geralt approaches him confidently, certain of his welcome in Jaskier’s space. He’s still covered in sweat from the forge, and several strands of his white hair stick to his neck. It’s quite distracting when added to the way his black shirt clings to his chest and arms.</p><p><em> Goodness, </em> Jaskier thinks, almost overwhelmed.</p><p>Finally able to tear his eyes away from admiring Geralt’s rather lovely physique, Jaskier looks down and sees that he’s been offered something.</p><p>“Oh, <em> Geralt,” </em> he whispers, overwhelmed in earnest now.</p><p>In those broad, calloused hands rests what appears to be a dagger in a sheath. The hilt of the dagger is smooth and looks comically small in Geralt’s palm but will undoubtedly fit Jaskier’s like a dream. He’s not sure what it’s made of, of course, but it’s deep blue shot through with swirls of bright gold. It’s stunning.</p><p>He can’t properly see the blade because it’s sheathed, but Geralt has an exceptional reputation. Jaskier has absolutely no doubt that it’s a flawless dagger and that he’ll be very impressed by it when he lays eyes on it.</p><p>The sheath, however, is a thing of genuine beauty. The leather is dark as chocolate, dark enough that Jaskier won’t have trouble wearing it discreetly. Stitched into the leather are intricate leaves, scrollwork, and even simple flowers here and there. The stitches are small and neat, but the tiniest bit clumsy, hesitant. Done not because it was comfortable, but because Jaskier would like it.</p><p>
  <em> “Geralt.” </em>
</p><p>“I… Worry. About you here. Alone. And this will- well, you’ll be able to hold them off until I come for you.”</p><p>The words are stilted and sound bitten off, as if Geralt has to force them out. They certainly shouldn’t have the effect they do on Jaskier, who feels as if his poor heart is about to pound out of his chest.</p><p>If trouble ever came to this sleepy village, and it decided to come into the <em> bakery </em> of all places, and if Jaskier somehow couldn’t make use of the hot pans and roaring fires he’s always surrounded by and had to defend himself and his home from attackers…</p><p>Well, now he has a dagger to do it with. To hold off any ne’er-do-wells until Geralt is alerted somehow. Roach, maybe, not that that’s what is important.</p><p>What’s important is that Geralt will come for him, and Jaskier knows that it’s no flippant promise. It’s a vow, really, spoken in Geralt’s halting way, that Geralt will stand between Jaskier and the rest of the world, regardless of what the world is throwing at them.</p><p>And, really, there’s only one way to respond to something like that.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t meet him in the middle of the scant space separating them, but Jaskier is quite used to being the pursuer, so that’s all right. He just steps forward until they’re close enough that their chests are pressed together, tilts his head the smallest amount, and presses his mouth to Geralt’s.</p><hr/><p>Geralt knew, when he came to present the dagger to Jaskier, that this would be the result. He knew that this gift, the first reciprocal offering he’s given, would confirm that what lies between he and Jaskier is real and mutual. As physical as Jaskier is, Geralt also knew how he would react to it.</p><p>Knowing, however, had not prepared him, not really.</p><p>What could have prepared him for how Jaskier feels in his arms? Strong and leanly muscled, to be sure, but small, too, delicate and soft. Or how, despite how he always thinks of Jaskier as small, they’re of a height, and how that makes kissing his songbird baker something sweet, warm, and intimate? How could he have known?</p><p>When Jaskier pulls away, Geralt has to catch himself from following him blindly. He doesn’t hide it well if the smirk on Jaskier’s swollen lips is any indication.</p><p>“We should move upstairs,” Jaskier murmurs, eyes shamelessly trained on Geralt’s mouth</p><p>He’s right, really. There’s only one small window that they can be seen through from the street, but it is enough. Though the village will most likely look the other way because they’re the only blacksmith and baker for miles, they’ll not be pleased if two men are together in such a way where they can be seen. It’s a tolerant village, but it’s not a brothel.</p><p>Geralt nods and lifts Jaskier, holding him close. Jaskier squeaks, but doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lean legs around Geralt’s waist. As Geralt carries them to the small staircase off to the side of the bakery, which he assumes leads up to the second floor and Jaskier’s sleeping quarters, Jaskier leans down and captures his mouth again, demanding and needy and hot.</p><p>Geralt ascends the staircase and is content to let Jaskier dominate the kiss. Once he’s gotten to the top, he has to nudge the other man away.</p><p>“Jaskier,” he growls, “the door.”</p><p>“What? What door?” Jaskier looks around, satisfyingly dazed. “Oh, oh my, we’re already at the top, are we? Goodness. Well, of course, the door, you’d need me to get the door. Just let me reach down here, and don’t drop me, now, I don’t-”</p><p>Once Jaskier has bent down to open the door for them (and Geralt tells himself to remember to scold his baker for not locking said door), Geralt kisses him again, cutting off the stream of babble. Jaskier hums into the kiss and Geralt walks them into the little room to the left, hoping it’s a bedroom.</p><p>Luck is with him in more than one way tonight, because it is. He steps through the door, which was slightly ajar, and swings it shut again with his foot before walking over to the bed and tossing Jaskier lightly down onto the mattress.</p><p>Jaskier squeaks again and Geralt takes in the sight of him, rumpled and flushed and breathing heavy. His blue eyes glow in the low light of the moon coming in through the small window, and Geralt wants him so bad the feeling threatens to consume him. </p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier says, almost a sigh.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t have any words for the moment, can’t articulate the feelings tangled in his chest, so instead of responding he unties the laces at the neck of his shirt and whips it over his head, baring himself to the baker. Jaskier’s eyes widen to a gratifying degree and he gasps, greedily taking in the sight. Geralt knows what he seems, the scars that litter his arms from the forge, the thick, pale hair that covers his skin, the muscles that are from hard work every day for the last several years. Nothing special, really, nothing any other blacksmith doesn’t have, but Jaskier’s reaction has him preening a bit nonetheless.</p><p><em> “Gods,” </em> Jaskier breathes, “when you take your pants off I might actually <em> die.” </em></p><p>Geralt chuckles, a soft rumble, and starts on the laces of his pants. The sight of that seems to spur Jaskier into action, because he immediately tugs off his apron and shirt. He gets tangled for several long moments before finally getting them both off and tossing them over the side of the bed. </p><p>It’s Geralt’s turn to stare. Jaskier, too, is muscled and lean, though not so much as Geralt himself is. Dark hair sparsely covers his chest and down his flat belly, and his waist tapers down to such slimness that Geralt could almost wrap both hands around Jaskier and have his fingers touch at the base of his spine.</p><p>There is a suspended, tight moment that hangs between them, during which they devour one another with their eyes, both of their hands stilled on the laces of their pants. Geralt wants to eat Jaskier alive, consume him wholly and never let him go.</p><p>The hunger, bordering on feral, must shine in his eyes because Jaskier breaks the moment by nearly tearing the laces out of his pants to get them off. Geralt is more sedate about it, but not much, until they’ve both shed pants and boots and are finally bare to one another.</p><p>“Gods above, I was right,” Jaskier murmurs as he makes grabby hands at Geralt to join him. “I’m going to <em> die.” </em></p><p>Geralt smiles a bit. “You’ll be fine.” He kneels on the bed, eyes glued to the way Jaskier’s legs spread so sweetly, naturally for him.</p><p>“Not if you don’t get that thing in me <em> this instant,” </em> Jaskier whines. His legs twine with Geralt’s and he arches his back, showing off his lithe form in a move that Geralt is consternated to realize works quite well on him. There’s a rumble in his chest that could, possibly, be called a growl as he pitches forward to cover Jaskier’s body with his own. He nuzzles at Jaskier’s neck and nips at the tendon there. He relishes the way it makes Jaskier shudder against him.</p><p>“Do you know what we’re doing here?” Jaskier demands, his voice pitchy and breathless. “Have you done this with a man before? It’s not like with women, I’ll have you know, and I <em> do </em> have oil, but I want to make sure you know what you’re doing before you-”</p><p>Geralt growls, his mouth pressed to Jaskier’s ear. “Yes, Jaskier, I know how to fuck you.” </p><p>Jaskier gasps, then smacks Geralt on the shoulder. “Where has this been?” he asks. “Where have you been hiding this talent for dirty talk? For <em> sweet talk, </em> even?”</p><p>Geralt sees no reason to lie now. “It’s always been here for you,” he says, finally propping himself up on his elbow to look down at the beautiful man beneath him. “Just waiting for you.”</p><p>Jaskier’s eyes are, if possible, even wider than before. The flush on his high cheeks darkens. “Geralt,” he rasps.</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“Get the oil. There, in the drawer in the table. <em> Hurry.” </em></p><p>In an instant, all of the urgency comes back, not just from tonight, but for the years that they’ve spent, carefully building what they have brick by brick, word for word, until the fact that Geralt isn’t already buried to the hilt in Jaskier is unbearable.</p><p>Jaskier is, as expected, mouthy and loud while he’s being prepped. He begs, threatens, cajoles, and pleads with Geralt as he slowly stretches him. Geralt mostly ignores him, instead choosing to hold one of Jaskier’s legs to his chest and watch the way his fingers disappear into the other man’s body, the oil making everything shiny and slick.</p><p>When Geralt finally pushes into Jaskier, it’s the first time all night that Jaskier is completely silent. His mouth has dropped open and his eyes are closed, but his face is peaceful and relaxed, as if he’s just been waiting for Geralt’s cock to feel complete. It’s a heady feeling and one that Geralt is instantly addicted to.</p><p>“Geralt, <em> move.” </em></p><p>“Bossy thing,” Geralt murmurs even as he obeys.</p><p>He was right, he can almost wrap his hands around Jaskier’s waist entirely. He does so, palms hard on Jaskier’s slim hips, and holds him still as he fucks into him. He starts slow, giving Jaskier as much opportunity as he can to get used to the sensation, but he can’t help the way he starts to go faster until he’s pounding into the smaller man, growling a bit beneath his breath. Jaskier, for his part, is wailing softly, hands scrabbling at Geralt’s shoulders and arms, leaving red scratches on his skin as Geralt takes him apart mercilessly.</p><p>The heat and pleasure build at the base of his spine and he angles Jaskier easily until his cries take on a sharper tone, and Geralt aims for that spot unerringly, determined to hold out until Jaskier comes first. The easy way he uses his strength to move Jaskier’s body however he wishes seems to do the trick, because Jaskier’s back arches again and he all but <em> screams </em> as he comes completely untouched, fingernails digging into Geralt’s shoulders and painting his chest and belly with seed.</p><p>Geralt gives a few more thrusts before he follows Jaskier over the edge, shuddering as pleasure wracks through him and he fills his sweet songbird. He barely keeps the presence of mind to shift before he collapses so he’s only half on top of Jaskier, one arm flung over the man’s chest.</p><p>They spend long, peaceful moments catching their breath before Jaskier seems to realize that he’s been silent and starts to speak again. He babbles about cleanliness as he pushes Geralt’s arm off of him and goes to get a rag to clean them both up, which he does gently and without ceasing his stream of chatter. He pulls a blanket off of a shelf in the corner and gracelessly flops down on top of Geralt, drawing the blanket over both of them.</p><p>He’s not sure of the wisdom of staying here, but Geralt just runs a gentle hand up and down Jaskier’s lovely spine, savoring the soft, warm skin that’s all his to touch now.</p><p>Jaskier tucks his head beneath Geralt’s chin almost defiantly before whispering, “I know we can’t… Not every night, I know. But tonight we can. You can stay tonight.”</p><p>Geralt smiles wide into the night where no one but him will ever know.</p><p>“Of course, Jask.”</p><p>He hopes he gets to wake tomorrow, too, to the sound of Jaskier’s singing.</p><hr/><p>It takes <em> weeks </em> for Roach to forgive them for forgetting her in the field overnight.</p>
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